Sam

Catfish…

In Lurve..., Random, Rant on August 31, 2015 at 2:17 am

Verb:
Lure (someone) into a relationship by adopting a fictional online persona.

I had a text off Steve tonight, out of the blue he did a Google-image search on this person we used to know. I knew her well before him and they know each other thanks to me. I also deleted her a long time ago because I didn’t believe we could progress our friendship, we chatted online for many years but she resisted every opportunity to meet in person and I didn’t believe a friendship can grow from across the screen, we hit a ceiling and I eventually grew tired of her ‘games’.

As you can tell from my tone, I considered her a friend, we used to share many anecdote late into the nights and I gave away secrets too. But, there was always something about her that didn’t feel right – I put it down to her personality and lack of desire to take anything seriously, I thought she only used me to pass time – which it’s true, I also had very little to do in the twilight hours so I didn’t mind it. We started chatting on MSN Messenger in 2004 through to 2010 (thereabout) and she was added to my Facebook.

She revealed very little of herself, such was her secrecy that I stopped asking questions very early on, I couldn’t be bothered anymore – that contributed to my indifference towards our friendship. I never took her seriously. A while ago I removed her from my Facebook, she was winding me up and I didn’t see the point in continuing being friends.

The end?

Well, here’s where it gets interesting. Athena Chan, as far as the internet is concerned – doesn’t exist.

Both Steve and I are looking into it now. I have little fragments of our interaction, a picture here and there, old MSN chat logs (I always backed-up), and 1,507 posts from the forum we used to frequent. She’s also got an active LinkedIn profile and I recall she used to have a Match profile with the same photo, hence that’s how I recognised her.

Basically, this person I have been interacting with for more than 5 years isn’t real. And going back to the Google-image search, every photo of her in person is taken from a Japanese singer/writer called Bonnie Pink, the copyright watermark at the bottom were all cropped off.

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 Screen shot 2015-08-31 at 01.59.18

Further searches found every other photo to be fake too – one bikini backside image is from the Kylie and Kendall Jenner’s Pinterest page, one location image with two legs are of an American couple, a blurry shot of HK belonged to a photographer, another image of coffee cup is generic and commonly used by a few bloggers.

It’s absolutely AMAZING! Maybe it’s weird but I’m stunned by the amount of effort to conceal her (or his!) identity. Her latest Facebook post was in 2014 – this person has adopted Bonnie Pink’s image for nearly a decade! Bonnie Pink was also used on the LinkedIn profile, she was once graduated from Kingston University, but according to her recent profile – now graduated from Manchester. Steve did his magic and traced her old emails to Newry (Northern Ireland), Brighton, London and Manchester (around Northern Quarter), at least the location corroborate with her story because we used to chat about her Northern Ireland roots, and her living on the Northern Quarter end.

She’s not entirely fictional – I don’t think. I also don’t believe she’s some sort of mastermind scammer or some white guy named Geoff. Out of all that I remember, she couldn’t have lied about everything – it’s human nature to leak some grain of truth. If anything, I can see somebody doing this for attention, or out of boredom. She could be well younger than she claimed, judging by the way she typed. Now that I think about it, her basic level German could have suggested someone still in school even, like someone who spoke the language recently!

What I do believe is real, is that she’s Chinese, she had knowledge one can’t fabricate or make up on the spot. Her hakka lineage for example and her understanding of HK people and their quirks, plus locations and small villages, and her ability to ‘pin yin’ in English is real. I also recall her knowledge of Manchester, which suggests she might have passed by the city or lived here temporarily. Is she really from Wilmslow at one point?

 So, I’m curious. Who is she?

What if everything about her is true bar the photos? But, why the deception with the photos? Her Match profile, I can imagine that’s done for attention and confidence boost. Her LinkedIn profile is a little more puzzling – it’s a business/job network site, I can imagine that would add weight to her deception although she has 85 connections. The Facebook profile is puzzling, there are images to suggest a nice life, i.e. book and coffee, sunset, bikini on beach, HK, holiday on a yacht deck, are they things this person aspire to have – or are they just nuggets to keep ‘friends’ believing that she’s real? I also think her friends list are all male.

It’s fascinating you know! I can understand taking a person’s image, Bonnie Pink is beautiful – what I don’t understand, is the little pieces of additional lies, such as the aspirational photos and the LinkedIn account. It’s more than necessary. If somebody is pretending to be a pretty girl, they don’t have to lie about their life – unless the fake persona became so big, that they needed a bigger story to back the face they don’t have, with a life they don’t have. Is it a person with very low self-esteem? I used to think Athena lived in a fantasy world… and I guess it’s actually true!

Let’s look at what I know, her username was Cinderella-UK (fairy tale), Athena is a Greek Goddess (myth), she loves/has knowledge of Korean drama (over-the-top soap). These may be significant, or not – but nobody is truly ever random, even if they are, there will be events that cannot be replicated, or pieces that tie the puzzle together.

I’m slowly sifting through fragments of her, I’m a cautious fella and things are always backed up, I have so much to read… and so much fiction to sift through, what is real, what isn’t? It’s incredible to be honest, I have moved on in life but this little news tonight made me intensely curious – not that I care about being in touch, but more about… realising what my instincts told me years ago, who was this strange girl?

Miss Chan
Channy
Athena 

Who are you?

Linds Redding’s last blog entry

In Art & Design, Hope on August 29, 2015 at 1:00 am

I came across Linds Redding today, an Art Director in New Zealand who passed away from cancer not long ago – his blog entry is circulated on social media. When I read it, it really hit me… especially the part where I bolded, he echoed what myself and I’m sure, many others in my profession feel. The cold truth of our industry and what we actually do…

May you rest in peace Linds.

His entry (copied below)

Many years ago, when I first started to work in the advertising industry, we used to have this thing called The Overnight Test. It worked like this: My creative partner Laurence and I would spend the day covering A2 sheets torn from layout pads with ideas for whatever project we were currently engaged upon – an ad for a new gas oven, tennis racket or whatever. Scribbled headlines. Bad puns. Stick-men drawings crudely rendered in fat black Magic Marker. It was a kind of brain dump I suppose. Everything that tumbled out of our heads and mouths was committed to paper. Anything completely ridiculous, irrelevant or otherwise unworkable was filtered out as we worked, and by beer ‘o’ clock there would be an impressive avalanche of screwed-up paper filling the corner of the room where our comically undersized waste-bin resided.

On a productive day, aside from the mountain of dead trees (recycling hadn’t been invented in 1982), stacked polystyrene coffee cups and an overflowing ash-tray, there would also be a satisfying thick sheaf of “concepts.” Some almost fully formed and self-contained ideas. Others misshapen and graceless fragments, but harbouring perhaps the glimmer of a smile or a grain of human truth which had won it’s temporary reprieve from the reject pile. Before trotting off to Clarks Bar to blow the froth of a pint of Eighty-Bob, our last task was to pin everything up on the walls of our office.

Hangovers not withstanding, the next morning at the crack of ten ‘o’ clock we’d reconvene in our work-room and sit quietly surveying the fruits of our labour. Usually about a third of the ‘ideas’ came down straight away, before anyone else wandered past. It’s remarkable how something that seems either arse-breakingly funny, or cosmically profound in the white heat of it’s inception, can mean absolutely nothing in the cold light of morning. By mid-morning coffee, the creative department was coming back to life, and we participated in the daily ritual of wandering around the airy Georgian splendour of our Edinburgh offices and critiquing each teams crumpled creations. It wasn’t brutal or destructive. Creative people are on the whole fragile beings, and letting each other down gently and quietly was the unwritten rule. Sometimes just a blank look or a scratched head was enough to see a candidate quietly pulled down and consigned to the bin. Something considered particularly “strong,” witty or clever would elicit cries of “Hey, come and see what the boys have come up with!”  Our compadres would pile into our cramped room to offer praise or constructive criticism. That was always a good feeling.
This human powered bullshit filter was a handy and powerful tool. Inexpensive, and practically foolproof. Not much slipped through the net. I’m quite sure architects, musicians, mathematicians and cake decorators all have an equivalent time-honed protocol.

But here’s the thing.

The Overnight Test only works if you can afford to wait overnight. To sleep on it. Time moved on, and during the nineties technology overran, and transformed the creative industry like it did most others. Exciting new tools. Endless new possibilities. Pressing new deadlines. With the new digital tools at our disposal we could romp over the creative landscape at full tilt. Have an idea, execute it and deliver it in a matter of a few short hours. Or at least a long night. At first it was a great luxury. We could cover so much more ground. Explore all the angles. And having exhausted all the available possibilities, craft a solution we could have complete faith in.

Or as the bean counters upstairs quickly realized, we could just do three times as many jobs in the same amount of time, and make them three times as much money. For the same reason that Jumbo Jets don’t have the grand pianos and palm-court cocktail bars we were originally promised in the brochures, the accountants naturally won the day.

Pretty soon, The Overnight Test became the Over Lunch Test. Then before we knew it, we were eating Pot-Noodles at our desks, and taking it in turns to go home and see our kids before they went to bed. As fast as we could pin an idea on the wall, some red-faced account manager in a bad suit would run away with it. Where we used to rely on taking a break and “stretching the eyes’ to allow us to see the wood from the trees (too many idioms and similes? Probably.) We now fell back on experience and gut-feel. It worked most of the time, but nobody is infallible. Some howlers and growlers definitely made it through, and generally standards plummeted.
The other consequence, with the benefit of hindsight, is that we became more conservative. Less likely to take creative risks and rely on the tried and trusted. The familiar is always going to research better than the truly novel. An research was the new god. The trick to being truly creative, I’ve always maintained, is to be completely unselfconscious. To resist the urge to self-censor. To not-give-a-shit what anybody thinks. That’s why children are so good at it. And why people with Volkswagens, and mortgages, Personal Equity Plans and matching Lois Vutton luggage are not.

It takes a certain amount of courage, thinking out loud. And is best done in a safe and nurturing environment. Creative Departments and design studios used to be such places, where you could say and do just about anything creatively speaking, without fear of ridicule or judgement. It has to be this way, or you will just close up like a clamshell. It’s like trying to have sex, with your mum listening outside the bedroom door. Can’t be done. Then some bright spark had the idea of setting everyone up in competition. It became a contest. A race. Winner gets to keep his job.

Now of course we are all suffering from the same affliction. Our technology whizzes along at the velocity of a speeding electron, and our poor overtaxed neurons struggle to keep up. Everything has become a split-second decision. Find something you like. Share it. Have a half-baked thought. Tweet it. Don’t wait. Don’t hesitate. Seize the moment. Keep up. There will be plenty of time to repent later. Oh, and just to cover your ass, don’t forget to stick a smiley :) on the end just in case you’ve overstepped the mark.

So. To recap, The Overnight Test is a good thing. And sadly missed. A weekend is even better, and as they fell by the wayside, they were missed too. “If you don’t come in on Saturday, don’t bother turning up on Sunday!” as the old advertising joke goes.

A week would be nice. A month would be an unreasonable luxury. I’ve now ‘enjoyed’ the better part of six months of enforced detachment from my old reality. When your used to turning on a sixpence, shooting from the hip, dancing on a pin-head (too many again?), the view back down from six months is quite giddying. And sobering.

My old life looks, and feels, very different from the outside.

And here’s the thing.

It turns out I didn’t actually like my old life nearly as much as I thought I did. I know this now because I occasionally catch up with my old colleagues and work-mates. They fall over each other to  enthusiastically show me the latest project they’re working on. Ask my opinion. Proudly show off their technical prowess (which is not inconsiderable.) I find myself glazing over but politely listen as they brag about who’s had the least sleep and the most takaway food. “I haven’t seen my wife since January, I can’t feel my legs any more and I think I have scurvy but another three weeks and we’ll be done. It’s got to be done by then The client’s going on holiday. What do I think?”

What do I think?

I think you’re all fucking mad. Deranged. So disengaged from reality it’s not even funny. It’s a fucking TV commercial. Nobody give a shit.

This has come as quite a shock I can tell you. I think, I’ve come to the conclusion that the whole thing was a bit of a con. A scam. An elaborate hoax.

The scam works like this:

1. The creative industry operates largely by holding ‘creative’ people ransom to their own self-image, precarious sense of self-worth, and fragile – if occasionally out of control ego. We tend to set ourselves impossibly high standards, and are invariably our own toughest critics. Satisfying our own lofty demands is usually a lot harder than appeasing any client, who in my experience tend to have disappointingly low expectations. Most artists and designers I know would rather work all night than turn in a sub-standard job. It is a universal truth that all artists think they a frauds and charlatans, and live in constant fear of being exposed. We believe by working harder than anyone else we can evaded detection. The bean-counters rumbled this centuries ago and have been profitably exploiting this weakness ever since. You don’t have to drive creative folk like most workers. They drive themselves. Just wind ’em up and let ’em go.

2. Truly creative people tend not to be motivated by money. That’s why so few of us have any. The riches we crave are acknowledgment and appreciation of the ideas that we have and the things that we make. A simple but sincere “That’s quite good.” from someone who’s opinion we respect (usually a fellow artisan) is worth infinitely more than any pay-rise or bonus. Again, our industry masters cleverly exploit this insecurity and vanity by offering glamorous but worthless trinkets and elaborately staged award schemes to keep the artists focused and motivated. Like so many demented magpies we flock around the shiny things and would peck each others eyes out to have more than anyone else. Handing out the odd gold statuette is a whole lot cheaper than dishing out stock certificates or board seats.

3. The compulsion to create is unstoppable. It’s a need that has to be filled. I’ve barely ‘worked’ in any meaningful way for half a year, but every day I find myself driven to ‘make’ something. Take photographs. Draw. Write. Make bad music. It’s just an itch than needs to be scratched. Apart from the occasional severed ear or descent into fecal-eating dementia the creative impulse is mostly little more than a quaint eccentricity. But introduce this mostly benign neurosis into a commercial context.. well that way, my friends lies misery and madness.

This hybridisation of the arts and business is nothing new of course – it’s been going on for centuries – but they have always been uncomfortable bed-fellows. But even artists have to eat, and the fuel of commerce and industry is innovation and novelty. Hey! Let’s trade. “Will work for food!” as the street-beggars sign says.

This Faustian pact has been the undoing of many great artists, many more journeymen and more than a few of my good friends. Add to this volatile mixture the powerful accelerant of emerging digital technology and all hell breaks loose. What I have witnessed happening in the last twenty years is the aesthetic equivalent of the Industrial Revolution in the 19th century. The wholesale industrialization and mechanistation of the creative process. Our ad agencies, design groups, film and music studios have gone from being cottage industries and guilds of craftsmen and women, essentially unchanged from the middle-ages, to dark sattanic mills of mass production. Ideas themselves have become just another disposable commodity to be supplied to order by the lowest bidder. As soon as they figure out a way of outsourcing thinking to China they won’t think twice. Believe me.

So where does that leave the artists and artisans? Well, up a watercolour of shit creek without a painbrush. That one thing that we prize and value above all else – the idea –  turns out to be just another plastic gizmo or widget to be touted and traded. And to add insult to injury we now have to create them not in our own tine, but according to the quota and the production schedule. “We need six concepts to show the client first thing in the morning, he’s going on holiday. Don’t waste too much time on them though, it’s only meeting-fodder. He’s only paying for one so they don’t all have to be good, just knock something up. You know the drill. Oh, and one more thing. His favourite color is green. Rightho! See you in the morning then… I’m off to the Groucho Club.”

Have you ever tried to have an idea. Any idea at all, with a gun to your head? This is the daily reality for the creative drone. And when he’s done, sometime in the wee small hours, he then has to face his two harshest critics. Himself, and everyone else. “Ah. Sorry. Client couldn’t make the meeting. I faxed your layouts to him at his squash club. He quite liked the green one. Apart from the typeface, the words, the picture and the idea. Oh, and could the logo be bigger? Hope it wasn’t a late night. Thank god for computers eh? Rightho! I’m off to lunch.”

Alright, it’s not bomb disposal. But in it’s own way it’s dangerous and demanding work. And as I’ve said, the rewards tend to be vanishingly small. Plastic gold statuette anyone? I’ve seen quite a few creative drones fall by the wayside over the years. Booze mostly. Drugs occasionally. Anxiety. Stress. Broken marriages. Lots of those. Even a couple of suicides. But mostly just people temperamentally and emotionally ill-equipped for such a hostile and toxic environment. Curiously, there never seems to be any shortage of eager young worker drones queuing up to try their luck, although I detect that even their bright-eyed enthusiasm is staring to wane. Advertising was the sexy place to be in the eighties. The zeitgeist has move on. And so have most of the bright-young-things.

So how did I survive for thirty years? Well it was a close shave. Very close. And while on the inside I am indeed a ‘delicate flower’ as some Creative Director once wryly observed, I have enjoyed until recently, the outward physical constitution and rude heath of an ox. I mostly hid my insecurity and fear from everyone but those closest to me, and ran fast enough that I would never be found out. The other thing I did, I now discover, was to convince myself that there was nothing else, absolutely nothing, I would rather be doing. That I had found my true calling in life, and that I was unbelievably lucky to be getting paid – most of the time – for something that I was passionate about, and would probably be doing in some form or other anyway.

It turns out that my training and experience had equipped me perfectly for this epic act of self-deceit. This was my gig. My schtick. Constructing a compelling and convincing argument to buy, from the thinnest of evidence was what we did. “Don’t sell the sausage. Sell the sizzle” as we were taught at ad school.

Countless late nights and weekends, holidays, birthdays, school recitals and anniversary dinners were willingly sacrificed at the altar of some intangible but infinitely worthy higher cause. It would all be worth it in the long run…

This was the con. Convincing myself that there was nowhere I’d rather be was just a coping mechanism. I can see that now. It was’nt really important. Or of any consequence at all really. How could it be. We were just shifting product. Our product, and the clients. Just meeting the quota. Feeding the beast as I called it on my more cynical days.

So was it worth it?

Well of course not. It turns out it was just advertising. There was no higher calling. No ultimate prize. Just a lot of faded, yellowing newsprint, and old video cassettes in an obsolete format I can’t even play any more even if I was interested. Oh yes, and a lot of framed certificates and little gold statuettes. A shit-load of empty Prozac boxes, wine bottles, a lot of grey hair and a tumor of indeterminate dimensions.

It sounds like I’m feeling sorry for myself again. I’m not. It was fun for quite a lot of the time. I was pretty good at it. I met a lot of funny, talented and clever people, got to become an overnight expert in everything from shower-heads to sheep-dip, got to scratch my creative itch on a daily basis, and earned enough money to raise the family which I love, and even see them occasionally.

But what I didn’t do, with the benefit of perspective, is anything of any lasting importance. At least creatively speaking. Economically I probably helped shift some merchandise. Enhanced a few companies bottom lines. Helped make one or two wealthy men a bit wealthier than they already were.

As a life, it all seemed like such a good idea at the time.

But I’m not really sure it passes The Overnight Test.

Pity.

Oh. And if your reading this while sitting in some darkened studio or edit suite agonizing over whether housewife A should pick up the soap powder with her left hand or her right, do yourself a favour. Power down. Lock up and go home and kiss your wife and kids.

Contemporary

In Dance on August 28, 2015 at 12:10 am

I’m feeling pretty tired, mentally from lack of good sleep and physically from exertion, I felt a second behind everything tonight – my mind was wandering and I wasn’t as focussed as I would have liked. My body just ached and creaked through the hour!

The breakdancing on Tuesday night took a toll on me, a very springy workout for two hours. Tonight I couldn’t balance, movement felt sluggish and I lost concentration. I could feel my back aching, my right side pinching me… like a bad stitch, and I had little power on my left leg. I was groggy as well, when I swung my head and body I felt like falling over, it’s a write-off tonight!

I enjoyed the rolls, on the positive side I’m becoming comfortable with them. The across the room was ok but I wasn’t as ‘loose’ as I would have liked, I was leaping ok. The routine was lovely and I should have enjoyed it more, I winged through it tense as hell! Was I trying too hard? It was a night of struggle…

Move on I guess, have a good rest this weekend and try again next Thursday!

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